


Caged Robins Don't Sing,

by whymylife (nabringa)



Series: Caged Robins [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Child Soldiers, Dana doesn't know what to do but she's trying, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Jack Drake's A+ parenting, Jack made him quit, Jack slowly realizing he may have been a crap dad, POV Outsider, Scars, Sort Of, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Tim is pissed but is willing to deal for now, Vigilantism, but now he's got a creepy vigilante child in his house that he doesn't know what to do with, or he used to be, you can take the child out of the vigilante life but you can't take the vigilante out of the child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27621083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nabringa/pseuds/whymylife
Summary: It wasn’t until he turned around one early morning with a fresh cup of coffee in hand to find Tim standing behind him-- tank top revealing a patchwork of vivid scars and defined muscle across his arms and shoulders, eyes flickering around the kitchen and clinically cataloging the exits, silent and still as the night itself-- that Jack realized he didn’t know This Tim.
Relationships: Jack Drake & Tim Drake
Series: Caged Robins [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052132
Comments: 44
Kudos: 457





	Caged Robins Don't Sing,

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tepache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepache/gifts).



> Inspired by this post: https://river-bottom-nightmare.tumblr.com/post/632709631904514048/you-know-what-i-want-i-want-some-more-of-that

As soon as his double life was revealed, Tim dropped the perfect son act. 

It wasn’t until he dropped it that Jack realized it was an act. 

There was no more well dressed and well mannered son of a former millionaire, there was only Tim. 

And it wasn’t until he turned around one early morning with a fresh cup of coffee in hand to find Tim standing behind him-- tank top revealing a patchwork of vivid scars and defined muscle across his arms and shoulders, eyes flickering around the kitchen and clinically cataloging the exits, silent and still as the night itself-- that Jack realized he didn’t know This Tim. 

***

The first week after the reveal, Jack spent hours in his office looking through old photo albums and trying desperately to remember how His Tim had looked, acted, spoke. 

He remembered the relief and joy when he held his son for the first time. He remembered picking up a squirming toddler and tossing him in the air amidst shrikes of laughter. Ruffling the hair of an eight year old as he walked out the door. Tiny, wrinkled feet cupped in his palm. Blue eyes blinking slowly up at him. Sticky hands patting his face. Dark hair soft and neatly trimmed. 

A smile. 

Not the smile This Tim wore sometimes, sharp and dark and menacing and meant to inspire fear more than express joy. A child’s innocent grin, dripping excitement and contentment and sunshine into the room. 

Jack tried to think back to the last time he saw his son smile like that, relaxed and happy, and all he could bring to mind was the photo of Nightwing and Robin Tim kept on his desk. 

***

Two weeks after the reveal, a gasp pulled Jack’s attention away from his book and he looked across the living room to see Dana, eyes wide, staring at something in the hallway. Standing slowly, he walked to the doorway and looked up the stairs. 

Tim was walking down the narrow, sloping, curving stair railing barefoot-- brow furrowed in concentration and arms held slightly out to the side. He wasn’t making a sound. No creaking of old wood, no squeak of bare skin against polish, no harsh breath cutting the stillness. The teen glanced towards the doorway and froze, something hardening in his expression. 

Father and son stared at each other for a long moment, and something fearful in Jack’s gaze met something coldly furious in Tim’s. 

Jack shivered. 

Slowly Tim’s face relaxed into a smirk, and without so much as a whisper he bent backwards into a handstand and walked himself back up the railing hand over hand, disappearing behind the landing and leaving the silence intact behind him. 

Jack staggered into the living room and collapsed next to his wife, shaking.

***

Jack knew he hadn’t spent much time with Tim once his son hit school age, so maybe This Tim wasn’t new. Maybe His Tim had always been that quiet, that composed, that confident. Maybe he hadn’t dropped an act, maybe he’d just relaxed. 

Maybe his son had always been a stranger. 

***

Jack read the newspaper every morning out of habit. The TV was too loud so early, and the glare from his phone hurt his eyes sometimes. So good old fashioned newspaper it was. 

A month after the reveal found him in the kitchen with his coffee opening up the paper to see-- 

_**Batman And Nightwing Struggle To Contain Arkham Breakout: Two-Face Still Unaccounted For After Three Days** _

_Story by Julia Remarque_

_The GCPD Commissioner has issued a city-wide alert after Batman’s failure to re-capture the criminal after a three day hunt. Witnesses say the Bludhaven vigilante, Nightwing, has been spotted with Batman, though no reports of Robin have--_

Jack frowned and tried to turn the page, but a firm hand on his wrist stopped him. Suppressing a flinch, he looked up to see Tim, eyes glued to the headline, face expressionless. 

Slowly, Tim let go and reached for the paper. Jack didn’t resist as he pulled it from his hands. 

Standing over his father’s chair Tim read the article silently, and Jack leaned back to watch his face. 

The only sign Tim was reading was the way his eyes flickered across the paper, his face a cold mask, empty of any emotion. Jack watched as Tim reached the bottom of the page, but instead of flipping through the paper to finish the story, he brought his gaze back up to the headline. 

Something broke through the mask, then. Something like anguish, deep sorrow, grief. 

Something terribly tragic shone through Tim’s eyes for a split second before he brought the mask back up and shoved the paper into Jack’s hands and turned to stalk out of the kitchen with featherlight footsteps and perfect posture. 

Jack threw the newspaper into the trash and finished his morning coffee. 

***

Dana was the one who was really trying to reach out to This Tim, Jack could freely admit it. His son had lied to him-- to his face-- for years now, and Jack couldn’t just forgive him and move on. Not from something like this. Not from the knowledge that his son knew Batman and Nightwing-- knew the Justice League-- and had worked with them for years. Had led a team of teen superheroes. Had been a teen superhero. 

Was a teen superhero. 

So Dana played chess with Tim, and asked him about his favorite movies and music and offered to let him help her in the kitchen, and Jack watched. 

Jack watched the way This Tim moved-- muscles coiled, steps smooth, balancing easily on the balls of his feet and leaning slightly forward. A predator stalking shadows through the halls, lying in wait in corners and doorways and holding himself loose but ready for action at the slightest provocation. 

Jack watched the way This Tim counted exits and cataloged contents when he entered a new room. Watched the way he handled electronics, sure fingers flying across keyboards faster than the eye could follow and disassembling and reassembling devices without hesitation. 

Jack watched the way This Tim watched him, watched the way This Tim became attuned to his and Dana's body language to the point where he asked their questions for them and reassured their unspoken worries unprompted. The way he knew he was being watched and would look up from his book or computer or homework with a cynical eyebrow raised and a smart comment about taking a photo that did nothing to hide the ice and rage lurking in his eyes, lingering in his movements. 

What scared him the most was watching the way This Tim disappeared under a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and casual body language that didn’t quite hide his tension when the family was in public. 

Jack watched his son, but all he could see was Robin. 

***

Two months after the reveal Dana announced she would be going out with friends for the evening but had left dinner in the fridge. Tim smiled at her, not quite all the way to his eyes, and wished her a wonderful evening out. Dana beamed. Jack frowned. 

Just before six o’clock Jack made his way to the kitchen to reheat the pot of soup and open a package of saltines. Tim set the kitchen table for two. 

Once the glasses were filled and the crackers opened and a hotpad set out for the soup, Tim took a seat at the table and Jack turned towards the stove. There were more hotpads in the drawer, but the burner was on low and the pot had a long handle, so it should be fine to pick up without protection. 

Jack wrapped his hand around the handle and lifted the pot, and immediately felt a searing pain across his palm. He dropped the pot-- already cursing at himself for being an idiot and wasting Dana’s perfectly good meal-- but Tim caught it. 

Tim... caught it. 

One hand around the handle, one flat against the red-glowing base, not a drop spilled and a slight grimace the only sign of discomfort. With an annoyed huff, Tim walked calmly to the table and set the pot down on the hotpad, before making his way to the sink and running cold water over his hands. Reaching under the sink for the first aid kit, he expertly applied burn cream to his palms and taped gauze over the worst sections. 

After flexing his hand to test the bandages Tim left the first aid kit on the counter and returned to the table-- the table he’d been sitting at when Jack reached for the pot, the table stationed a good six feet from the stove-- and served himself a bowl of soup. He grabbed a handful of crackers and glanced up at his father with a quirked eyebrow, and Jack realized abruptly he was still standing in the middle of the room. 

Blinking slightly, Jack walked to the sink and repeated the routine Tim had just gone through, albeit with much more fumbling. By the time he’d returned the first aid kit to it’s spot in the cupboard, Tim had finished his dinner and was clearing his place. 

Jack ate cold soup alone in his silent kitchen, and wondered if the atmosphere would really have been that different if Tim had stuck around to eat with him. 

***

This Tim liked to climb things. Liked to hang from doorframes by his ankles or his fingertips. Liked to balance on bookshelves and backflip down. Liked to enter a room and gather a dozen or so knick knacks and juggle them high in the air while pacing the perimeter and toss them back into place onto shelves or desks one by one. 

Dana screamed the first time she found Tim juggling knives in the kitchen, skillfully catching the blades between his fingers and flipping them back into the air with a flick of his wrist. 

***

Three months after the reveal, Tim asked for permission to go running in the mornings before school. Jack offered a hesitant yes with the provision that Tim kept his phone on him. 

He didn’t like the thought of Tim wandering the city alone when it was only just dawn, mostly because Jack would have no way of knowing who Tim was talking to or what he was doing when he was out. But at the same time, if he never let Tim go out on his own with permission, the probability that he would start sneaking out on his own without permission-- again-- was very high. At least, according to Dana. 

So Jack gave permission, and Tim started running. He was gone and usually back by the time Jack and Dana got up in the morning, so it didn’t disrupt the typical family schedule. 

Jack was fairly certain Tim had kept some kind of exercise routine going over the last three months, despite being permanently banned from vigilante related activities. Every so often he would wake up before Dana and go down to start the coffee machine only to find Tim sitting in the kitchen drinking juice, dressed in cutoff sweatpants and a tank top, skin flushed and hair damp. 

He certainly hadn’t lost any of his muscle tone. 

Jack hated seeing Tim half dressed like that. Tim wore long sleeves and jackets around the house, and Jack hated to be reminded of why. Hated the way Tim’s scars stood out against his pale skin, scarlet-red and silver-white and puckered like bullets and jagged like knives and neatly stitched over and as old as three years and a young as three months and layered over each other in a haphazard collage of mangled flesh and pain. Hated the way Tim’s short stature and narrow build had been filled out with corded muscle and raw strength and years of hand to hand combat training. 

Hated the way Tim didn’t hate himself, was so obviously comfortable in his skin and confident in his appearance. 

Jack hated the way his son’s former lifestyle had shaped his body just as it had shaped his mind. Hated the reminder that Tim would never be free of the marks or the memories. 

Hated the reminder that Tim didn't want to be. 

***

Tim never talked about Robin. Never brought it up. Never made snide remarks when hearing about the Rogues on the evening news or mentioned things Batman had said to him in passing conversation or tried to justify his odd behaviors and habits. 

Jack never brought it up either. He didn’t quite dare. 

There was a story behind every scar on his son’s body and every twist and flip he’d mastered and the way he could disappear between one blink and the next and the way he could pluck something thrown or dropped out of the air without looking. 

His son had a lifetime of stories to tell, but Jack wasn’t sure he wanted to hear them. Wasn’t sure Tim would ever be willing to tell them. 

Dana spent her days trying to get to know Tim, trying to get him to open up to her. He was receptive in some ways, and family movie nights and family mealtimes became routine. 

But the more he remembered and the more he watched, the more Jack couldn’t bring himself to do the same. 

Jack had stripped Tim of his feathers and locked him away from the sky in the hope of recovering his son, only to find that his son didn’t exist anymore. His Tim had been an act, a mask. 

The bird beating at the bars of his gilded cage with cold eyes and bare, silent wings, was a Robin.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so. I went back and changed the title because I like this one sooo much better, and did some edits. I have at least two ideas for sequels, so this may become a series? Then again I say that about everything XD 
> 
> I have always been fascinated by the Drakes, because Tim was the only Robin who had living civilian parents and being a superhero without your parents finding out requires your parents to have some issues. Which, they did. But Jack in particular didn't seem to realize that. He didn't want to or couldn't acknowledge the part he played in Tim becoming Robin, I think he needed to. So I wrote it. Enjoy!


End file.
